Toads
by bombahead
Summary: Well well... lovelorn monk, wounded friend, pheromones in the air. Enjoy.


Ijt was a dark and stormy night. (Actually it wasn't, but it should have been.) Instead, it was a fairly dry evening with plump bugs zooming in and out between nectar-dripping flowers and luscious trees swaying beneath a gentle breeze. The earth radiated warmth and a mellow, sleepy atmosphere surrounded the trees, bushes and grass. There was a road winding through the soothing surroundings, worn smooth from the trampling of hundreds of feet, hooves and wheels. This was a common route used by travelers to reach the monastery of Amaravati, famous for its monks who possessed mysterious healing powers.  
  
Further down the road there was a small, slimy green pond, encrusted with duckweed, topped with pink water lilies. A fat brown toad had just waddled out and sat blinking lazily towards the sunlight. This was the life. His belly filled with unlucky (well, not anymore.) flies, his bumpy back warmed by the setting sun, and he tilted his head so as to catch a stray ray of light.  
  
Too bad he had to do it in the middle of the road.  
  
According to the universal law of comedy there was a distant rumbling sound. Birds chirruped, bees hummed, and the rumbling sound grew stealthily closer and closer. The toad blinked an eye open. The rumbling was very distinct now, sending flocks of birds flying towards the rapidly blushing horizon. The toad focused his attention on the bend in the road, some ten meters away from where he was squatting, obscured by dense foliage.  
  
The surface of the pond rippled.  
  
Leaves rustled. Twigs crackled.  
  
The rumbling which had by now grown into a thundering, was right upon the toad, who had in a vague amphibian way started wondering if it would not be a more profitable course of action to silently bugger off when WHAM!  
  
(Let's just say that the flies now could rest in peace, secure in the knowledge that they had gotten their revenge.)  
  
The horse, which had sent the unfortunate toad to his untimely demise, was spurred on by a tall hooded figure. The cloak obscured all features, and billowed out behind him, owing to the speed at which he was traveling.  
  
Time was of the essence.  
  
Held tightly between the person's arms was a body, draped in a wool blanket. Tufts of red hair stuck out from between the creases and folds of the blanket. One might wonder how the rider managed to cradle the body, holding it gently, whilst steering a galloping horse. But then again, this was no ordinary rider. The shadowy cloak concealed Chichiri, former apprentice of Taiitsukun and Suzaku warrior. From amidst the wool blanket a pained moan escaped. Chichiri spurred his heels into the horse, which reared up then decided that the wisest path lay in definitely obeying whatever Chichiri at this moment. Sensing his chi at this moment, no mad, red-eyed stallion would have dared even try casting him off his back.  
  
Chichiri tried to compose his thoughts. It had all gone terribly wrong.  
  
When Tasuki, burning with rage, attacked Tamahome, Chichiri already knew something was wrong. He could feel something out of place, like a dissonant sound: grating on his nerves, tantalizingly close, but not so he could put his finger on it. He could do nothing to stop Tasuki and Tamahome from fighting, so he dived desperately into the consciousness of Tamahome, determined to weed out what was wrong. This was not just a battle of bodies; this was also a battle of minds. He concentrated, and tried to delve deeper, past the emotions of the fight: rage, lust, the need to obliterate, to destroy, to kill - primal feelings, red-hot and screaming for his attention, but he ignored them and went farther still. And there it was, so obvious, like a sharp blow to the face. No memories. No memories, nothing. A void, where 17 years worth of memories, fantasies, joys, sorrows, ponderings should have been; instead there was nothing. He felt his stomach go cold. What had they done to the boy?  
  
Miaka was standing next to him, weepy-eyed and disconsolate, calling out to her love, getting no response. She knows, Chichiri thought, she knows but still she. How could they stop this fight? Both young men being formidable fighters, the outcome was uncertain, and there was nothing that could have stopped the devilish being which whirled around; a lethal hurricane, looking like Tamahome, but nothing like Tamahome.  
  
Then suddenly Miaka called out to Tasuki: "Tasuki please, stop!!" Chichiri stared in horror as Tasuki slowly sheathed his harisen, and started blocking and evading the hits, kicks and slashes aimed at him by Tamahome. What should he do? Chichiri felt the panic rising.  
  
Blood was oozing from Tasuki's forehead, one of his eyes was swollen shut, his face, his body was covered with bruises, cuts and contusions. Suzaku knew how many fractures and broken bones he had, but still he was standing his ground. It was more than Chichiri could bear.  
  
Nakago had chosen this moment to deposit a blast of chi to the spot where he and Miaka had been standing a second ago, and their escape had hung on a hair's breadth. Chichiri had found his powers blocked, so he could not teleport himself and Miaka back to the palace - had he even considered for a second that he would be willing to leave Tasuki to perish. Luckily enough, Tama the cat had re-appeared, and using him Chichiri had broken the wards put up against the Suzaku warriors. Using his powers he broke the chain around Tasuki's neck, saving him from Tamahome's attempts at strangulation. Tasuki lay there, bloody and bruised, in his arms, and Chichiri carefully cradled his head, momentarily at loss what to do, so overwhelming was his sorrow. Tasuki's one eye swiveled up at Chichiri, unfocused, a sort of plea, which slowly disappeared, as he spiraled into unconsciousness.  
  
The monk wasted no time, but gathering his energy teleported all of them as swiftly as he could back to the palace, where the rest of the Suzaku warriors awaited them, dreading the news they would bring.  
  
Hotohori had asked Miaka what had happened, and she was at a loss for words, except for "I saw Tamahome, and I said my goodbyes." No more words would leave her mouth and Hotohori had ordered the servants to take her to her room. The urgent question remained: What to do about Tasuki?  
  
Unfortunately, it was one of those weird quirks of fate that Mitsukake had been called upon a sick woman who had almost died during her laboring pains, and so his powers had not been replenished yet. He could only describe the wounds so as to determine the severity of Tasuki's state: "Three broken ribs, broken right arm, body-wide contusions. but he has also lost a lot of blood." Chichiri stared at him. How could he say that in that matter-of-fact voice? It was Tasuki, their Tasuki lying there, hardly breathing, covered in blood, beaten to a pulp! But he controlled his emotions, because he respected Mitsukake's opinion, and knew that of the two, Mitsukake was the more experienced healer. "What should we do?" he asked, hoping as hell that his voice did not betray his shaky emotions.  
  
Mitsukake had looked at him, eyeing him in a serious manner and said: "Listen, I'll tell you now Chichiri, that I don't have the means to heal Tasuki for the next couple of hours. And there is a monastery called Amaravati near here, a two hours' ride from the palace. The monks residing in the monastery hold similar powers to mine, and I think our friend needs their care as fast as we can get him there. The brown-haired man nodded his assent and concentrated on teleporting himself and Tasuki over to Amaravati. He held up his hand to his face, but could not focus. Soon he had to steady his forehead with the same hand, because the backlash of the fight was washing over him, and his emotions were threatening to over-power him. But he, being of a practical nature, realized that the situation demanded him to act quickly. Tasuki's blood had already thoroughly soaked his clothes, and the bandages Mitsukake had put around his body did not seem to be helping. So, the monk had composed himself and swooped up the limp form of his comrade, bearing down on the terrified palace stable boys, demanding the swiftest horse they had. That was how it came that the setting sun caught him on the Amaravati highroad, cradling Tasuki to his chest, daring the faint pulse to weaken, as if his thoughts could stop the bleeding, the life from seeping away.  
  
The sun had set on the monastery of Amaravati. The monks were used to visits from near and far, thus keeping the giant iron gates of the building open day and night. Said gate was at the moment reverberating with the thunderous hoof claps of a horse at high speed, which gradually slowed down to a trot, only to diminish fully, as the horse and its rider - no, riders - came into full view of the occupants of the courtyard. As stable boys hurried forward to take care of the horse, a senior monk approached the travelers. He bowed and addressed the man who was handing over the reins of the horse to the servants, while at the same time supporting his comrade: "What brings you here, traveler?" The man replied, words spilling urgently into the rapidly cooling evening air: "My comrade needs urgent attention, he has been badly wounded in fight. Please brother, waste no time!" By then the senior monk had already signaled two other monks who slipped forward from the shadows and carried Tasuki off to the East wing, the infirmary as they informed Chichiri.  
  
He was just about to follow suit, when he felt a careful, but insistent grip on his arm. "Do not be offended sir, but I suggest you get some rest. By the looks of it my brethren will be occupied with your comrade for the next few hours. If you rest now, you will be able to be by his side when he wakes up. And I assure you, he will." Chichiri looked into the honest face of the senior monk, and felt on his chi that he could trust this man. Besides, it was true - he did need the rest. The ride had been long and arduous. "Ah, to hell with all this angsty contemplation." he half muttered, half growled in an uncharacteristic burst of frustration as he strode towards the guests' wing, where the sleeping chambers lay.  
  
Moonlight illuminated him a few hours later as he woke up, slowly pulling out of sleep, as if by some outer force. He stared at the white ceiling for a moment, then remembering where he was gathered his wits about and made his way towards the east wing.  
  
After addressing a passing-by group of novice monks he found the chamber where they had put Tasuki after treating him. The senior monk whom they had first encountered was waiting for him, casually smoking a pipe, but putting it away with a sheepish look when he realized the foreign presence. He winked at Chichiri: "Pleasures of the flesh. bad habits die hard. But I see that you are impatient to find out how your friend is doing. You can go in and ask him yourself." Again, he flashed one of those quick little smiles. Chichiri bowed deeply: "Thank you, brother." and pressed on into the chamber.  
  
Pale moonlight spilled onto the clean hardwood floor of the sparsely furnished room. Tasuki lay sleeping on a futon, his brow smooth and white, so different from the fever-ridden face that Chichiri had been looking at not so long ago. His breathing too, was deep and even, sunk into a healing sleep, dreamless, painless.  
  
The lean form of the tousle-haired man closed the distance between them, and knelt down by the futon. He held out a hand to the sleeping form, gingerly tracing the line of that beautiful jaw, the finger lingering all too long, all too long. He snatched the hand away. If Tasuki had woken up.!  
  
"Then what!" he felt he needed to defend the act from himself. "I didn't do anything wrong." "Yeah right, I don't think Mr. Mountain Bandit would feel the same way." Chichiri clamped down on the inner voice, cursing himself for his inner inhibitions. But somehow he sensed that part of what the voice had said was true. Tasuki would never accept him.like that. And the boy needed friends.dependable friends.  
  
"Oooh." a groan had escaped from the golden-eyed manboy. Although he did not look far as bas as he had when he arrived, his bruises and cuts were still clearly visible. "Fuck.I feel.that BASTARD!!! UGHH!!!!" Tasuki had attempted to sit up, but his body was sending out a clear message to lie still where he was, and don't even think about moving. He looked up weakly and saw Chichiri's brown gaze eyeing him anxiously. "Chichiri.why the hell am I lying here. what happened to that bastard Tamahome!?" Chichiri proceeded to explain as quickly as possible, without agitating him (like that was possible) about what had happened, omitting the fact that he had not been able to teleport Tasuki, but had been forced to ride all the way to Amaravati.  
  
It took quite a while to calm down Tasuki, and persuade him that jumping out of bed and rushing to the palace was not only physically impossible, but also foolhardy and unnecessary. "Please try to get some rest Tasuki, no da?" The red head glanced at him moodily, but realized the truth in his companion's words. "So.what am I supposed to do here while I rest? I'm not sleepy, and I'm bored." Chichiri grinned at him, hoping the other didn't notice how awkward he felt: "Well, that's why I'm here, no da. I'm sure we can figure out something to do."  
  
The morning sun released its first tentative rays on the monastery of Amaravati. The great copper bell of the tower was chiming five o'clock, and the monks were already busily attending to their chores. Inside the chamber a lively conversation was taking place:  
  
"Wow, I never knew they can make sake six different ways.where do you pick these things up, Chichiri?  
  
(Now Chichiri was an honest man, but at this point his agenda did not figure saying: "Oh, well, I know you like sake so I did a little research on the subject, so I could make interesting conversation with you and perhaps. *involuntary blush*).  
  
"Oh, well, I guess you kinda pick it up on the road, no da."  
  
"Yeah, you were saying about the tavern were you were staying that night?"  
  
Chichiri continued with one of his numerous stories about his travels. After being released from his apprenticeship from Taiitsukun, he had been at loss what to do at first. But when he got used to constantly being on the road, he felt like he was in his right element. It sure made for interesting conversations. And Tasuki was listening with rapt attention. People often tended to label him as a brute, ignorant and insensitive. But after getting to know him, you realized that there was this thirst for information (and sake.) about the world around him. Maturity came surprisingly easily to the young man if he wanted it to.  
  
"Mmmm I could settle for some Shochikubai house sake, or nigori-zake, and ginjo-shu, daiginjo-shu and junmai and"  
  
Well.his interest may have been a bit narrowed down to sake, but it was there. He looked at Tasuki happily gabbing away and wondered: would it have been different if it had been Mitsukake, Tamahome or any other seishi warrior who had brought him here? Did it matter that the one talking was Chichiri? A small sigh, hardly audible, escaped his mouth.  
  
"It is late.well, actually early. You should sleep, no da."  
  
Tasuki nodded amiably and yawned, two tiny fangs glinting momentarily. Chichiri had been pushing the door open as the following words reached him:  
  
"But come back later, ya hear? It would be pretty damn boring without someone to talk to." A furtive look, a barely perceptible shrug and Chichiri left the room.  
  
He wandered down the hall aimlessly, a gloom settling over him like thick, choking smog. The seishi warrior did not seem to want more from him than friendship. and after all, what did he, Chichiri, expect?  
  
Said warrior was having trouble falling asleep. His eyelids were closed but his mind was racing, sending him urgent flashbacks from the previous day. Chichiri had saved him, hadn't he? It was not so much what the monk had said, it was the way he was pointedly not saying something. Tasuki cursed inwardly. Why did it have to be the one he secretly admired who had to see him lying on the ground covered in blood and dirt? Dammit! He had been over- confident; he had gambled too much on his own perseverance. But what did it help to whine and snivel now? A hoarse whisper penetrated the room:  
  
"He must think I'm a fool."  
  
It was evening, and the dreary singing of crickets punctuated the dark of the monastery gardens. Muffled steps echoed in the hallway, promptly stopping in front of one of the oak doors.  
  
"Dinner for two, no da!" Chichiri said in his happiest squirrel-mode.  
  
".". The bundle of blankets turned towards the wall did not dignify this with an answer.  
  
"Um. I brought you fruit, curried rice and fish. I even managed to get my hands on some sake, no da!" Chichiri hazarded, even though the atmosphere of the room seemed definitely colder than it had been earlier that evening.  
  
"'m not drinking tonight."  
  
The monk was perplexed. What was with his friend's sullen childishness all of a sudden?  
  
"Tasuki, what's wrong?"  
  
The ricebowl became aerodynamic crashing as it shattered somewhere above the door.  
  
"I'll tell you what's goddamn wrong! I'll tell you what the fuck my problem is! How can you be like this with me, smiling at me, but saying to yourself: what a fool? You saw me as I was, pathetic and beaten, and you keep up this fucking act! Makes me sick!"  
  
"B-but Tasuki."  
  
The aforementioned had already gotten up, grasping the wall for support, and as fast as he could, left the room. Left behind was a dumbfounded friend, rooted to the spot.  
  
Tasuki found himself in the monastery garden, having released some steam, and feeling quite stupid. He got physical on a tree, shouting various selected cussswords until he felt that he had completely calmed down. He leaned his arm against it for support. He had still not recovered fully, and his body was making sure he noticed this. As he was wondering if Chichiri had left his room, a tap on his shoulder made him turn around abruptly. He opened his mouth to say something but the furious face of Chichiri got before him:  
  
"Shut up Tasuki and hear me out on this! You want to know what I saw? I saw a friend forfeit a battle for the sake of his friends. I saw him act in a way that required a lot of courage. I saw him fight until he lost conciousness. And I did fear for his life, but not because I thougt he was weak, but because.because.."  
  
Suddenly he did not know how to go on. During his tirade he had moved closer and closer to Tasuki, finally standing inches from his face. He was about to step back when Tasuki's hand reached out and grabbed his shoulder.  
  
"Don't leave." he said quietly. "Tasuki." Chichiri squirmed nervously under the other man's hold, but did not succeed in escaping. "Tasuki, let go." "Fuck it Chichiri, I'm tryin' to apologize!" Tasuki said in a desperate voice. "Well you still shouldn't.what?" "Look, I acted like an asshole in there. I realize that you are my friend and that I can trust you." He was blushing quite furiously by now. (Great. Now Chichiri was going to think he was some kind of pervert.) He blinked in surprise when Chichiri's hand touched his face, brushing away a few red locks. His other hand rested against the nape of Tasuki's neck. The word's he uttered were so softly spoken that Tasuki had to lean closer to hear. Slipping his mask off, Chichiri looked into those golden eyes, a smile playing on his lips and simply said:  
  
"Gotcha."  
  
Beofore Tasuki even realized what was happening a soft mouth met his own, cutting off any possibillities of verbal requital. It was a questioning kliss, pleading, imploring, but relentless all the same. His mind had gone blank, but his body reacted by itself. His arms drew around Chichiri's lean form, drawing him closer, backing them both up against the tree. His lips parted slightly, allowing Chichiri's tongue to dart inside his mouth, caressing and exploring. It was like being drawn into a vortex as his body succumbed to forces greater than itself. A delightful dizziness caught him and he clung to the other man for support.  
  
In the end it was Chichiri who drew back first, omitting only a faint gasp. He looked remorsefully at the ground and then at his companion; then his gaze was dragged to the ground a second time as he tried to speak, his face now similar in colour to his friend's.  
  
"Tasuki, I'm sorry, I don't know what. I mean I wasn't.I mean I couldn't.I mean." he rambled on, but was interrupted by Tasuki putting a finger on his lips and running another finger along the vivd scar brought to light by the removal of the mask. "I don't mind Chichiri. I really don't." Giving him a cute grin he moved in for seconds.  
  
Birds chirruped, bees hummed and the sun beat down brightly on the Amaravati highroad. Out of a slimy green pond near the roadside a fat brown toad waddled ashore. It had been a bad, bad week. Not only had Uncle Henry died in a freak accident, leaving him flattened like a pancake, but also the population of flies living in the sedge surrounding the pond had joined forces against the amphibian inhabitants. Squatting morosely at the spot where they had found Uncle Henry, he contemplated life, albeit this extended mostly to how many flies he would eat today. Immersed in his simple ponderings he did not quite notice the two horsemen rounding the curve in the road.  
  
The flat form of the late toad dwindled away as Tasuki and Chichiri gallopped in the direction of the city, bickering.  
  
"Tasuki, you should've sat in front of me, you're still recovering, no da."  
  
"Shut up! I'm not that much of a sissy yet, squirrel-man!"  
  
"Well, you didn't say much.. mmm, yesterday, no da." The seishi warrior's eyes misted over. "Watch where you're steering the friggin' horse you pervert!" a furiously blushing Tasuki snapped.  
  
The sun shone, the birds chirruped. All was well. 


End file.
